


in your hands, my heart

by MangaFreak15



Series: SakuAtsu in love [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Sakusa Kiyoomi, First Kiss, Gay Disaster Miya Atsumu, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, POV Sakusa Kiyoomi, References to Drugs, Stalking, Stand Alone, Strangers to Lovers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and not the fun kind, not as dark as it sounds, only for like one paragraph, this is mostly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29527596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangaFreak15/pseuds/MangaFreak15
Summary: He almost drops the onigiri when Atsumu blurts out, “Yer really pretty, y’know that?” Then he seems to realize what he just said and he starts panicking. “No, wait, I don’t mean it like that! Not that I’m sayin’ that yernotpretty, but I mean, fer a guy, yer kinda beautiful an’ like, I bet ya’ve got people swoonin’ over ya left ‘nd right, y’know? I think yer pretty too, but like, objectively! N-not because I like ya or anythin’!” Kiyoomi just stares as Atsumu buries his face into his hands with a groan, something like “fuckin’endme” coming out right at the end.A college AU featuring Miya "you saved me from a stalker and now I'm in love with you" Atsumu and Sakusa "I saved you from a stalker and now you won't leave me alone" Kiyoomi.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: SakuAtsu in love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169279
Comments: 6
Kudos: 189





	in your hands, my heart

**Author's Note:**

> cw: non-con touching/attempted rape - it's only for one paragraph and it's not graphic!
> 
> This isn't even half as long as my 20k monster SakuAtsu one-shot, but it's just as fluffy
> 
> I don't have mysophobia, so sorry if it's depicted inaccurately (´；д；`)

Sakusa Kiyoomi’s quiet life as a broke art student at MSBY University is interrupted on an ordinary Tuesday morning.

One moment he’s crossing the dirt-trodden path winding up the hill to the art department, carrying an enormous black canvas bag housing his equally large drawing clipboard and his sketchbook, the next thing he knows someone takes the corner ahead of him full-tilt without even looking where he’s going. The collision is inevitable.

Kiyoomi just barely manages to stay on his feet, one gloved hand flashing out to smack against the nearest wall for support as his shoulder buckles beneath the weight of his bag. The other guy is less lucky, falling flat on his ass on the unforgiving concrete, which he announces with a startled shout, “Whoa!”

Kiyoomi scowls down at the other guy as he pushes off the wall. “Watch where you’re going, asshole,” he scoffs, not even bothering to offer him a hand up.

When the person looks up, Kiyoomi unfortunately recognizes him: he’s Miya Atsumu, the starting setter of the MSBY University’s collegiate team. He looks more disheveled than normal, bleached hair a rat’s nest, a dumbfounded expression on his equally stupid face. Kiyoomi moves to walk past him to get to his class.

Distantly, he hears a shrill _“oh, A-tsu-muuu, you can’t hide from me~”_ and Miya instantly starts panicking. He scrambles up and attempts to grab Kiyoomi’s sleeve, “Hey, wait—”

Kiyoomi dodges him with reflexes honed from fourteen years of mysophobia. “Don’t _touch_ me with your filthy hands,” he growls, glaring at Miya.

“Okay, shit, I won’t, but please, help a guy out!” Miya pleads, throwing both hands up. “If ya’ve got hand sanitizer or something, ya can pour it on my hands if ya need to, but ya gotta help me!”

“Excuse me?” Kiyoomi spits, eyes narrowing at the shorter man as he keeps throwing nervous glances over his shoulder. “Why do I need to do anything for you?”

“I’ll make it up ta ya, promise! But c’mon, really, I need help, there’s this crazy bitch who keeps stalkin’ me—” Right on cue, said bitch’s voice rings out closer to them, singsonging Miya’s name in a way that makes all the blood drain out of the athlete’s face. Kiyoomi wants to say no and walk away, but Miya seems to be legitimately terrified of whoever it is chasing him, and it plucks the strings of some sympathetic part of him that he’d thought he’d locked away a long time ago.

No one should ever have to deal with a stalker, even someone as infuriatingly arrogant as Miya Atsumu.

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue in annoyance, then sets his canvas bag down so he can dig through it for his sanitizer. He grabs it and squirts a generous amount on Miya’s open palms, which he rubs together vigorously. Then he pulls them into the shade of the nearest building. “Wipe your face,” he demands, handing Miya a tissue. He does, throwing the used tissue in the trash after. Kiyoomi’s insides recoil in disgust and apprehension at the thought of having to _willingly_ touch another human being, even despite the sanitized hands. There could be germs on any of the clothes Miya is wearing, on his face, in his hair, every part of him that hasn’t been completely washed away by a good, hot shower. They don’t have time for that though, so Kiyoomi sucks up his revulsion the best he can and pushes Miya against the wall. He hisses, “Be quiet and don’t make a sound, or I’ll leave you here, got it?” Miya frantically nods.

The art student listens intently for the confident click of heels on stone, then purposely angles them so that his arm is blocking Miya’s face from view. He suppresses a full-body shudder when he hooks one strap of his face mask so that it dangles from the other ear, then leans in so that their lips are almost touching. Miya stares back at him with wide eyes, his fingers shaking nervously from where they’re pressed into Kiyoomi’s chest.

_“Atsumu~ come out and play with me! Don’t be shy, I know aaaall about the things you like!”_ the woman says, rounding the corner of the building. Kiyoomi flicks a glance in her direction, just to assess her so he can steer clear of her in the future. Miya’s face is pale, one of his hands tightly fisting Kiyoomi’s yellow jacket. He’s actually scared of her. Either that, or Miya’s an exceptional actor, but somehow, Kiyoomi doesn’t think that’s the case this time.

The woman walks past them and continues down the path, calling Atsumu’s name over and over again. They wait until she’s both out of sight and out of hearing range before Kiyoomi snaps his mask back on and steps away, feeling the itch on his skin that screams that he needs a shower now. He throws his gloves in the trash and squirts a dollop of sanitizer into his own hands, the obsessive need to be rid of any germs briefly consuming him.

Miya awkwardly clears his throat when Kiyoomi picks up his canvas bag. “Uh, thanks fer helpin’ me,” he says, shoving his hands into his own pockets. “Really, I could tell it made ya uncomfortable.”

“I’m not so heartless to leave someone to deal with a stalker by themselves,” Kiyoomi says. He regards the volleyball player, noting that the man has stopped trembling, although there’s still a somewhat unhealthy pallor to his skin that makes him look washed out. “You should involve the police if your situation is really that bad.”

“Yeah, I guess I should.” Miya runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “Anyways, I said I’ll make it up ta ya, so how ‘bout I treat ya ta some onigiri? My brother works at one of the shops on campus.”

“I have class,” Kiyoomi replies tersely.

“Ah, that’s not a problem. I’ll give ya my number an’ ya can just lemme know when yer free,” Miya says. “Sound good?”

Kiyoomi stares at the athlete for a good thirty seconds, making him fidget in place for a bit. “Fine,” he bites out. If Miya’s offering free food, why not? All of Kiyoomi’s meager money goes to expensive art supplies anyway, so he can barely afford to feed himself most days. He takes out his phone, opening up the contacts list. “What is it?”

Miya rattles off a string of numbers. Kiyoomi saves it and pockets his phone. Then he turns around to leave.

“Hey wait, can I get yer name first? Just so I know it’s ya an’ not someone else when ya text me,” Miya calls out.

Kiyoomi’s feels a pulse of irritation shoot through him because Miya won’t stop _talking._ “It’s Sakusa,” he mutters. “Now leave me alone.” He hurries off before he can hear another word come out of Miya’s mouth.

* * *

Kiyoomi has a three-hour drawing studio class followed by an art history lecture, a half hour break, and then the discussion section for said art history class, so he doesn’t remember Miya’s offer until nearly six when his discussion finally lets out for the day. He’s pretty hungry, so the promise of free onigiri is enticing (but he has to check to make sure the store serving them is clean first).

> **[Kiyoomi]**
> 
> This is Sakusa
> 
> I’d like to take up that offer now

It takes Miya about five minutes to reply.

> **[The Annoying Guy]**
> 
> great!
> 
> c’mon by, it’s the Inari Café
> 
> the one next to the bookstore
> 
> dw the store’s clean!
> 
> samu is a clean freak like ya

Kiyoomi scoffs at Miya’s choice of words. Him, a clean freak? ‘Clean freak’ doesn’t even begin to describe the depth of Kiyoomi’s mysophobic tendencies. But if this ‘Samu’ can live up to Kiyoomi’s cleanliness standards, then he won’t mind dropping by for a bite every now and then.

The only unfortunate thing is that the Inari Café is on the other side of campus from Kiyoomi’s class. There’s no way in hell that Kiyoomi’s getting on a jam-packed campus bus, so it looks like he’ll have to walk. Well, it’s good exercise, he guesses, grimacing. It’ll definitely make him hungrier, even though it already feels like his stomach is eating itself.

> **[Kiyoomi]**
> 
> Be there in 25
> 
> **[The Annoying Guy]**
> 
> i’ll be here!!

Kiyoomi pockets his phone and goes.

The sun is low in the sky by the time he gets to the shop. Kiyoomi gazes up at the grinning fox head logo hanging over the doorway, proudly announcing the name of the café. It's kind of tacky, if Kiyoomi's being completely honest, but befitting of a college-level shop. The door is held open with a rubber stopper, which makes him glad because he won't have to make contact with any potential bacteria-filled surfaces. He steps in.

"Sakkun, ya made it!" Kiyoomi twitches at the unwanted nickname. He stares balefully at the grinning idiot sitting on one of the bar stools at the open counter, one hand raised in a greeting.

"That's Sakusa to you," he growls.

"Ah, feel free ta ignore him, he's got the manners of a troll," says an eerily similar voice from behind the counter. Kiyoomi stares as a carbon copy of Miya Atsumu ducks through the curtain flap that leads to the kitchen. He squints, because there cannot possibly be enough evil in the world to warrant having _two_ of that moron running around, and realizes that while they have the same face and build, there actually _are_ differences between them, such as one having bleached hair that’s nearly ochre-yellow and the other having hair dyed a pleasant argent-silver, and that their hair is also swept to opposite sides. Kiyoomi thanks every deity out there for that. So, rather than two Miya Atsumus, there's just a pair of monozygotic twins.

Miya—well, he supposes he has to refer to them by their given names so as not to mix them up—Atsumu squawks in outrage, "Samu, take that back! I'm the definition of manners!"

His twin ignores him with ease, waving Kiyoomi over to an empty seat. This twin seems to be the calmer, more level-headed of the two, so Kiyoomi likes him already. “Nice ta meetcha, Sakusa-san. I’m Miya Osamu, the unfortunate twin o’ this bumblin’ fool,” Osamu introduces himself, throwing a smirk in Atsumu’s direction. “By the way, thanks fer helpin’ him out with the stalker situation. What kinda onigiri d’ya want? On the house.”

“Hey, don’t ignore me!” Atsumu complains. “And I said I was gonna treat ‘im!”

“Yeah, but ya can’t cook fer shit, moron,” Osamu fires back. Kiyoomi lets out a quiet laugh behind the mask as the siblings start bickering in front of him.

“Umeboshi, please,” he says. Osamu immediately stops teasing his red-faced brother and nods.

“Comin' right up!” He heads back into the kitchen.

Kiyoomi reclines in his seat, watching with amusement as the remaining Miya twin sticks his tongue out at his brother’s retreating back and mutters, “Bastard. Shoulda offed ‘im in the womb.”

“I thought you were the definition of manners,” Kiyoomi drawls, stifling a laugh when Atsumu jumps in his seat and whips around like he’s forgotten that Kiyoomi is there. He’s much less amused when Atsumu slides out of his seat and plops down in the one across the table from him. “I don’t recall asking you to join me.”

“So cold, Sakkun,” Atsumu sighs, leaning his cheek on one hand. “Aren’t we friends now?”

“No. Go away.”

Atsumu chuckles like he just heard the best joke in the world. The warm yellow lights of the café catch on the stray bleached strands of hair falling into his face, turning them an odd mustardy color that goes surprisingly well with the taupe of his irises. Kiyoomi itches for his sketchbook, but he had left it in his dorm room because he hadn’t needed it for his art history discussion section. He takes out his phone instead.

“Hold still,” he demands, opening his camera app.

Atsumu blinks and moves to sit up, but Kiyoomi glares at him. “I said _hold still.”_

“Okay?” the volleyball player says, bewildered, but complies, leaning his head on his hand again.

Kiyoomi angles the shot so that the background is barely visible, tapping his phone to focus on Atsumu’s eyes specifically. He takes the picture, storing it away so he can use it as reference later (and not because he wants to actually draw that stupid face, oh no, not all).

“You can move now,” he says, tucking his phone away.

Atsumu grins, straightening up with a languid stretch of his toned arms, subtly bringing attention to his defined pectorals beneath the plain black dri-fit tee that he’s wearing. Kiyoomi scoffs at the attempted flex.

“Aw, but I thought ya liked it when I modeled fer ya,” Atsumu sighs, bringing his arms back down. Kiyoomi shoves away the tiny flash of disappointment he feels when Atsumu’s muscles disappear beneath the fabric.

“That wasn’t modeling, that was just for reference,” he says dryly, giving no reaction to Atsumu’s following pout. He looks away when Osamu reappears with a delectable tray of fresh onigiri. He’s even wearing clean gloves as he slides the tray of food in front of them. He smacks away Atsumu’s wandering hands with ease, telling the whiny athlete to order his own plate if he wants food.

“But I’m yer brother! Where’s my free grub?” Atsumu grumbles.

“Ya still hafta pay, idiot.”

Atsumu sulks in his seat. Kiyoomi thanks Osamu for the food, then unhooks his face mask so he can eat. The soft, moist rice parts easily beneath his teeth, perfectly salted, a burst of sourness singing across his tastebuds from the tart umeboshi filling. The second bite includes an additional salty-sweet tang from the strip of seaweed covering the bottom of the onigiri, bringing all the flavors together in one mesmerizing harmony. Kiyoomi closes his eyes, savoring it.

When he opens them again, Atsumu is staring at him with his mouth hanging open a little, eyes wide. “What?” Kiyoomi snaps defensively.

He almost drops the onigiri when Atsumu blurts out, “Yer really pretty, y’know that?” Then he seems to realize what he just said and he starts panicking. “No, wait, I don’t mean it like that! Not that I’m sayin’ that yer _not_ pretty, but I mean, fer a guy, yer kinda beautiful an’ like, I bet ya’ve got people swoonin’ over ya left ‘nd right, y’know? I think yer pretty too, but like, objectively! N-not because I like ya or anythin’!” Kiyoomi just stares as Atsumu buries his face into his hands with a groan, something like “fuckin’ _end_ me” coming out right at the end.

Osamu is doubled over behind the counter, laughter poorly concealed behind a raised hand, shoulders shaking. Atsumu raises one hand and flips him off without even looking, which makes the other twin laugh so hard that tears are coming out of the corners of his eyes and he’s practically wheezing, clutching at his stomach, his entire face screwed up with mirth.

Kiyoomi decides to just eat the rest of his food without saying anything. It’s not his problem if Miya Atsumu is more of a mess off the court than he is when he’s on it.

* * *

Kiyoomi lives in a single room in the Itachi dorm building, citing his mysophobic issue as a reason why he doesn’t want to live in a shared room. A shared hallway is bad enough, especially because he’s witnessed how disgusting college students can be (the bathroom is so unsanitary that Kiyoomi often has to do the janitor’s job for them because he can’t _stand_ it in that filthy hellhole).

Living in a single means that he has a little slice of sanctuary just for himself. Which, as he looks at the photo of Atsumu he had taken on his phone, is a blessing when it comes down to it. No one needs to know that he has a picture of one of MSBY University’s star athletes out of uniform. Kiyoomi takes out his sketchbook and sets pencil to paper, ready to draw.

He sketches the outline first: the general shape of Atsumu’s face, his hair, the slope of his broad shoulders, the way he leans into his hand. Then he takes a soft lead pencil and adds in the little details, the droop of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the curl of his lopsided smile, the tight cords of muscle in his neck and arms. Shading takes the longest (because seriously, fuck clothing folds), but when Kiyoomi sits back and glances at the clock, he realizes that he’s just spent four hours on a portrait that will (probably) never see the light of day.

He looks at the drawing, and Miya Atsumu stares back in grayscale.

The portrait ends up getting tucked into his portfolio. The very least it can do is help him win the student art grant that he’s applying for in two months.

* * *

Being called ‘Sakkun’ is bad enough, but Kiyoomi feels like he reaches a new level of Murderous Rage™ on the day that Atsumu finally learns his given name a week and a half later. It’s all Motoya’s fault, really.

His cousin also happens to play on the collegiate team, so he’s well-acquainted with one Miya Atsumu. On a not-so-fine Friday afternoon when Kiyoomi finds his ear getting yapped off by how he should come and see their game tomorrow, Motoya comes by to also ask his cousin if he wants to watch them play.

“Kiyoomi!”

Kiyoomi wants to put his head in his hands and sigh when he sees Motoya walking towards them, waving.

“Oh, you’re with Atsumu? I didn’t know that you guys knew each other.” Motoya returns the grin that his teammate shoots at him. “Wanna come to the game tomorrow? I think you’ll see something good.”

Kiyoomi jerks a thumb in Atsumu’s direction. “This idiot already bugged me about it till I said yes,” he grumbles.

“Aw, but ya know ya wanna!” the bleached-blonde whines.

His cousin laughs. “Okay then, I’ll see you there. Have fun on your date!” He runs away cackling before Kiyoomi can get up and kill him on the spot. _That’s not what this is!_ he wants to yell at Motoya’s retreating back. He cracks his knuckles instead, imagining them meeting Motoya’s smug face with a satisfying smack.

When he looks back at Atsumu, he’s taken aback to find that Atsumu’s entire face is red. “What are you embarrassed for?” Kiyoomi says, scowling. “We aren’t dating, we’re not even friends.”

“I-I’m not embarrassed ‘bout nothin’!” Atsumu blusters, although the brief flash of panic through his eyes says otherwise. “Also, that’s rude! We’re definitely friends!”

“No, I saved you from a stalker once and now you won’t leave me alone.” Kiyoomi finishes his drink and tosses the cup into the trash.

“Aw, but Omi-kun—” The moment the cursed new nickname leaves Atsumu’s lips, Kiyoomi gives him the most blistering glare he can manage, dredging up every single iota of loathing in his six-foot-four body and compacting it into a single look, sharp enough to slit a man’s throat (if looks could kill, that is).

To his consternation, Atsumu looks completely unbothered by the glare. He grins, the same wild fox-kill grin that he shows when he makes a spectacular play on the court, the one that says _‘are ya challengin’ me?’_ “What, don’t like the nickname? Sakusa Kiyoomi is a real mouthful, don’tcha think, _Omi-kun?”_ he goads, smirking like the self-assured asshole that he is. The blush has mostly receded from his face, leaving just the tip of his nose and ears flushed faintly pink.

Kiyoomi wants to break his stupid face. “Don’t,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “call me that.”

“Sure thing, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu replies, the sly expression never leaving his face.

Fuck, that one’s even worse. “That’s _Sakusa_ to you—” Kiyoomi starts angrily, but then Atsumu is leaning forward, planting both of his arms on the table between them. He’s not close enough to trigger an auto-response from his mysophobia, but close enough that Kiyoomi can see the tiny splatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose, a sprinkle of stars across smooth golden skin.

“Hey, Omi-kun.” Atsumu runs his tongue over his chapped lips, and Kiyoomi forcefully jerks his gaze back up to the annoying idiot’s knowing eyes. This fucker knows what he’s doing. It’s like he’s a different person from that blushing mess earlier. “When we win the game tomorrow… will ya go out with me?”

What the fuck.

He says as much out loud, watching the corners of Atsumu’s eyes crinkle in amusement. Kiyoomi kind of hates himself when he thinks that’s actually kind of attractive. He’d very much like to go back to his dorm room and smother himself with a pillow before this gets any worse than it already is.

“Ya don’t gotta answer right now. Just tell me tomorrow, after ya watch the game,” Atsumu says, getting up from his chair and slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “See ya later, Omi-kun!” He saunters off, whistling a cheery tune.

Kiyoomi stays in his seat for a good ten minutes before he goes back to his dorm.

If anyone hears the sound of incoherent screaming from the Itachi Dorm followed by the sound of something breaking, they wisely don’t mention it.

* * *

Saturday’s game against the team from Schweiden Technical College takes place on MSBY University’s home turf. Fans of both teams have filled the bleachers, sounds of cheering near indistinguishable from each other, a cacophony of sounds that makes Kiyoomi’s ears bleed. He’s not sure if there’s a quiet corner where he can sit by himself, so he parks himself somewhere near the top of the stands, in an aisle seat for quick escape purposes, and throws his bag into the seat next to him so that nobody will be near him (which earns him complaints and dirty glares, but he doesn’t give a shit, his mysophobia comes first).

Since it’s a home game, there’s obviously more MSBY fans here than Schweiden fans. When the Black Jackals are introduced, the people go wild, waving homemade banners and jackal plushies, some fans even screaming out individual players’ names. Kiyoomi sees Atsumu waving back, blowing kisses into the crowd and making over half of the attendees swoon over him. Kiyoomi just rolls his eyes at the unnecessary theatrics.

As the Adlers are introduced and their fans go nuts over them, Kiyoomi catches Atsumu casually looking around as if he’s searching for something. He scoffs; no way Atsumu’s going to see him in a crowd this big.

And yet, somehow, he does. His eyes catch and hold on Kiyoomi’s, a genuine smile crossing his face. He winks, to Kiyoomi’s disgust. Atsumu is too far away for Kiyoomi to see the words he mouths, but he guesses it’s probably somewhere along the lines of _watch me._ So he does.

The game starts off with Atsumu’s serve. Kiyoomi’s only knowledge of volleyball comes from Motoya’s stories and the late nights of helping his cousin practice. When they were kids, Motoya had tried to get Kiyoomi into volleyball in order to stave off the loneliness that comes from having two working parents and two older siblings who are already out of the house, but by then, Kiyoomi had already found solace in drawing. He supposes that if he had gained an interest in the sport, he would have met Miya Atsumu a long time ago.

Atsumu raises a hand, clenching it into a fist. All the noise abruptly stops. Kiyoomi’s seen this happen many times; apparently noise disrupts his concentration while serving. The man takes six steps back. Then he throws the ball up, goes into a flying leap, and smashes the ball so hard that it flies right between the libero and one of the outside hitters, just barely toeing the back line upon contact with the floor. The stadium erupts with screams as the announcer shouts in an ecstatic voice, “There it is! Miya Atsumu starts the game off with a no-touch service ace! What a man! He’s in fine form right now! Can he give us an encore or will the Adlers be able to pick up the next one?”

Kiyoomi sits there, stunned. He’s seen Atsumu play before, back before the athlete even knew he existed, but somehow, there’s something… _different_ about the Miya Atsumu that he’s seeing on the court right now. There’s voracious hunger in his every move, the intense desire for victory driving him to greater heights of athleticism. And his form, the way his calves bulge as he jumps, his legs curling up neatly behind him, the way his spine arches as he uses all his momentum to pack as much power into the jump serve as he can—it’s, dare he say, _beautiful._

Atsumu takes four steps back this time. The crowd quiets down again, waiting in anticipation. Kiyoomi even leans forward in his seat a little, intent on burning as much of this game into his memory as possible so he can go into a drawing frenzy later.

Toss, jump, and slam. But rather than the overwhelmingly-powerful shot from earlier, this one’s a jump floater, wobbling precariously over the net before veering sharply to the left. The Adlers smallest member, a guy with spiky white hair, manages to pick it up, but it goes sailing gently back over to the Black Jackals’ side of the court. “Chance ball!” the Jackals captain, Meian, bellows.

Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu positions himself neatly beneath the ball. “Right!” yells the spiker with two-toned hair.

Atsumu bends his knees, fingertips holding the ball for two loving seconds. He tosses high, slightly close to the net, and the Black Jackals' shortest guy slams it home with an exuberant shout.

The crowd goes wild. Atsumu and the shorter guy, whose jersey says Hinata, high-five. “Nice kill!” Motoya says, patting Hinata on the back. The orange-haired spiker beams.

“Send me the next one, Tsum-Tsum!” says the two-toned spiker, whose jersey reads Bokuto.

Kiyoomi barely pays attention to how loud it is right now in favor of staring straight at Atsumu, who finds him in the crowd again.

_Are you watching me?_ his body language seems to say.

_I am,_ Kiyoomi thinks. _I’m right here._

The Black Jackals get to five points before the Adlers manage to score their first, a block-point that puts an end to Atsumu’s serving turn. That’s when the game starts to get really intense, neither side letting up, fighting tooth and nail over every point. Kiyoomi isn’t even surprised when Atsumu boldly performs a setter dump right at the Black Jackals match point, which nets their team the first set. The stadium echoes with the sound of cheering.

The MSBY University team ends up winning 3-1. Even Kiyoomi feels the excitement thrumming through his blood at watching their home team emerge victorious. Atsumu looks up at him with the biggest, most genuine smile on his face that Kiyoomi has ever seen, pushing his cheeks up and showing off all of his shiny white teeth. He's dripping with sweat, bleached hair plastered to his skull, and Kiyoomi should feel disgusted, but… seeing Atsumu like this, laughing with his teammates, chest-bumping Bokuto, basking in the glory and attention of the screaming fans, he can only feel—not _fond,_ but at least more willing to tolerate Atsumu's existence.

_When we win the game tomorrow… will ya go out with me?_

Well, that sure answers the question, doesn't it?

Kiyoomi gets up and leaves while the crowd of fans is still bouncing their victory cheers off the stadium walls. He’ll wait for Atsumu outside.

* * *

Except that Atsumu doesn’t show up even after half an hour has passed. Kiyoomi taps his foot on the ground impatiently, constantly checking the time on his phone. How long is that idiot going to make him wait? It doesn’t take that long to shower and change into clean clothes. Did he get held up by fans? Kiyoomi would’ve thought that Atsumu would try to find him after the game as soon as possible to hear his answer, and yet, there’s no sign of him.

Loud laughter reaches his ears. He looks up and sees the collegiate team exiting the stadium, chattering amongst themselves. But… Atsumu isn’t with them. Where is he? If he’s too chicken shit to listen to Kiyoomi’s response, then Kiyoomi just wasted thirty minutes of his life that he’ll never get back. He makes his way over to them.

Motoya sees him first. “Kiyoomi! You came!” he says happily, skipping ahead of the group. “What’d you think of the game? Pretty cool, right?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi agrees, briefly thinking back to the various gameplays that made the audience cheer the loudest. He makes a show of scanning the team. “Where’s Miya?”

“Oh, Atsumu? He said he forgot something in the locker room,” Motoya replies, then his brow furrows and he looks back towards the door where they just came out from. “Though, he has been in there a while…”

“Don’t worry, he’s probably taking an extra-long dump or something!” Bokuto guffaws, bounding over to them. Kiyoomi instantly looks disgusted by the vulgar words that come out of the spiker’s mouth and he takes a step back. “Who’s your friend, Komori?”

“Cousin, actually,” Motoya corrects, smiling at Hinata’s joyful exclamation of “wow, your cousin’s _super_ tall!” He looks back at Kiyoomi. “Why don’t you text him to see where he’s—”

Kiyoomi’s phone pings with an incoming notification and they both look down at it as he unlocks the screen. Kiyoomi’s blood runs cold upon seeing the one-word message:

> **[Atsumu]**
> 
> HELP

They share grim looks. “Let’s go back,” Motoya says to the team, who all blink at him in confusion. “Atsumu might be in trouble.”

“Atsumu-san’s in trouble?! We gotta help him right away!” Hinata yells, turning on his heel. Bokuto runs after him immediately.

“Let’s go, Kiyoomi!” Motoya leads him into the stadium.

“Wait, am I allowed to be back here?” Kiyoomi questions as they duck through doors leading to the team’s locker room.

“It’s fine, you’re with us,” says the captain, long strides eating up the cool tiles with every step. “If they complain, we’ll worry about it later.”

They burst into the locker room, Hinata and Bokuto shouting at the same time “Atsumu-san!” and “Tsum-Tsum, are you okay?!” The scene inside is one that instantly makes everyone’s blood boil.

Atsumu is laying on the floor on his back, trying to fight off the woman straddling him, but his movements are weak and sluggish. An empty syringe is discarded on the floor. The woman has both of her hands on the front of Atsumu’s jeans, fiddling with the zipper. Kiyoomi recognizes the woman as the stalker he had helped Atsumu avoid before, and he can feel the flames of sheer anger lick at his insides. The nerve of this bitch!

He’s not even aware of the three steps it takes to bring him to Atsumu’s side, where he rips the woman off of Atsumu. She screams, long manicured nails reaching out to claw at him. Kiyoomi can feel all the skin on his body _crawl_ at the thought of touching her any longer than necessary, so he throws her towards Bokuto and Hinata. They immediately restrain her. She lets out a hysterical cry of “no, he’s mine, he’s _mine!”_ and tries to break free, but they hold steadfast.

Kiyoomi turns his attention to Atsumu, who looks so profoundly relieved at the intervention that he’s started crying. He’s shaking violently, fat tears dripping down his cheeks. “O-Omi, thank god y-ya came,” he sobs, hands twitching as if he’s trying to reach for Kiyoomi, but he still doesn’t move.

Kiyoomi kneels down beside him, looking down at the discarded syringe in disgust. The needle is wet with blood, a matching puncture mark on Atsumu’s bicep where the drug was presumably injected. “Paralytic drug?” he asks, and Atsumu does his best to nod. He curses in his head at the woman’s reckless actions.

“Miya, how do you feel about going to the hospital?” Meian asks, lips pressed into a somber line.

Atsumu manages to shake his head, although it’s very slow. “Want Samu,” he croaks, sniffling. “I w-wanna go h-home.”

The captain nods. “I’ll give him a call. Komori, why don’t you and your cousin take him back to his dorm?”

Motoya gives him a concerned look. “Kiyoomi, do you think you’ll be able to carry Atsumu back? I’m not strong enough to carry around someone who’s taller than me, especially with all the muscle mass he has,” he says hesitantly, well aware of Kiyoomi’s aversion to germs and human contact in general.

_No,_ is Kiyoomi’s first thought, but looking down at Atsumu’s distraught face, he decides to just suck it up. If being this close to the blond athlete doesn’t have him breaking out into hives, he’ll probably be fine. The real question is: _how_ is he going to carry him? Atsumu is currently under the influence of a paralytic drug, which means he won’t be able to hold onto him if he tries to carry him on his back. He’s also too tall and too heavy to sling over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Which just leaves… the princess carry.

Atsumu seems to reach this thought at the same time because he instantly stops crying and starts blushing as red as a virgin on their first night of intimacy. He tries to say something about how he can walk by himself, but it comes out a garbled mess of indecipherable syllables.

Motoya and Hinata both laugh at him while Bokuto, the captain, and their third wing spiker escort the stalker to security. Kiyoomi heaves a quiet sigh of long-suffering and mutters, “Let’s just get this over with.”

He slides one arm under Atsumu’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees, grunting in exertion as he heaves the other man up. Atsumu is _heavy,_ what the hell. Kiyoomi is no star athlete, but he does carry around heavy art equipment pretty much on a daily basis and even that didn’t prepare him for how much energy it takes to keep Atsumu aloft.

“Y’okay there, Omi-kun?” Atsumu says.

Kiyoomi huffs, blowing an errant curl out of his eyes. “Just worry about yourself,” he replies, taking a step towards the open door.

Thankfully the captain has a van that he had parked nearby in case any of the Black Jackals were too tired to walk home themselves. Kiyoomi lays Atsumu flat on a row of seats, then goes to sit in the front passenger seat. Meian gives him an odd look when he produces a pack of sanitizing wipes and cleans the seat before he sits in it, but doesn’t comment.

They arrive in front of the Inari Dorm within ten minutes. Osamu and another guy are waiting outside of the building, both wearing slightly panicked expressions.

“He’s fine,” Kiyoomi says as he gets out of the van. “We stopped it before it escalated to something worse.” He slides the van door open, revealing Atsumu still in the same position on top of the seats.

“Tsumu!” Osamu runs over to the van, the other guy hot on his heels. “Are ya okay? Ya hurt anywhere?”

“Samu,” Atsumu chokes. He twitches, likely trying to reach for his brother, and gives up when he can’t do more than that.

Osamu looks questioningly at Kiyoomi. “Paralytic drug,” Kiyoomi explains, watching as Osamu’s gunmetal-gray eyes go dark with fury. “He should be fine once he sleeps it off. He was injected in the upper arm, so make sure you treat that.”

“Gotcha. C’mon, Rin, help me carry ‘im.”

As they trudge past Kiyoomi, Osamu cradling his brother's torso while the other guy holds his legs, Atsumu weakly lifts his head and mouths, "Omi, whatta 'bout m' question?"

"You're worried about that _now?"_ Kiyoomi sends him an unimpressed glance.

The blonde grins sheepishly. “Yes or no, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Ask me again when you’re better.” Because he’s not about to say ‘yes, I will absolutely go out with you’ in front of Atsumu’s twin brother while Atsumu himself is drugged and fresh out of an attempted rape.

“That’s cheatin’,” Atsumu complains as Osamu and the other guy carry him away.

_You can wait one night,_ Kiyoomi thinks, exasperated.

Later on, he sits in his room, headphones blasting classical music, bent over his desk with his watercolor palette sitting by his elbow. He doesn’t paint very often, but for the scene he has in mind, pencil simply won’t be able to capture the majesticness of it. With the tip of his brush, he traces a line of gold down the page. Blue and yellow, for the volleyball. Hair the color of ochre, shining beneath harsh stadium lights, two hands reaching up as if trying to catch the sun itself.

* * *

On Sunday, Kiyoomi wakes up to his phone going off at five in the goddamn morning. He almost flings the thing at the wall, but remembers last second that he doesn't have the money to pay for a new one and his parents certainly won't get another phone for him.

Now grumpy and irritated being woken three hours earlier than usual, he doesn't even look at the caller ID before he answers, snapping out a harsh, _"What the fuck do you want?"_

"Wow, what's got yer knickers inna twist?" Kiyoomi nearly hangs up on principle upon hearing Atsumu's accented twang coming through the speaker. "Uh, so, thanks fer helpin' me yesterday, too. That makes twice that ya've saved me."

"If you called me at five in the morning just to thank me, I'm hanging up," Kiyoomi says crossly.

"Oh, that's not why I called. I, uh, wanted ta ask if—well, I know yer probably still tired, but d'ya wanna watch the sunrise with me?" Atsumu's last words come out in a rush and it takes Kiyoomi's sleep-addled brain a few seconds to process the question.

Watch the sunrise with Atsumu? On a _Sunday_ when he could be catching up on all the sleep he lost over the week? He's about to say no, but Atsumu quickly adds, "I'll bring umeboshi onigiri fer ya."

Damn it. Kiyoomi furiously runs a hand through his tangled mass of curls and sighs, "Ugh, fine. Where?"

Atsumu cheers, "Great! Meetcha on the hill behind the Karasu Dorm. It's got the best view!"

"Fine, but if you ever call me before eight on a Sunday ever again, I'm blocking you."

"That's fair," Atsumu says. "See ya soon, Omi-kun." He hangs up.

It takes ten minutes for Kiyoomi to clean the shower stall to his liking, another ten to shower, five minutes to do the bare minimum of his morning skincare routine, and fifteen to make it up to the top of the hill. Atsumu is already there, a blue picnic blanket spread on the ground. He waves as Kiyoomi approaches.

“Ya made it!” Atsumu says, looking far too chipper for someone who probably woke up at the asscrack of dawn.

Kiyoomi pulls his coat tighter around himself as he walks over. “You’re the one who wanted me to come. Now give me my onigiri.”

“Sheesh, good mornin’ to ya, too. Guess yer not a mornin’ person, huh?” Atsumu chuckles, opening up the wicker basket in front of him. There’s six onigiri inside, each neatly wrapped in plastic wrap. There’s also a thermos in the corner along with two bowls, presumably for soup.

“It’s Sunday,” Kiyoomi grumbles, whipping out his hand sanitizer. Atsumu holds out his hand for some as well, taking care to rub it over every part of his hands before he touches anything inside the basket. Kiyoomi appreciates that. Most people find his mysophobia annoying and burdensome to deal with, but from someone he’s known for less than two weeks, it’s a surprisingly thoughtful gesture. He takes off his face mask, tucking it away into his pocket for later, and accepts the food from clean hands.

They sit there in companionable silence, Kiyoomi chewing on his onigiri while Atsumu measures miso soup out of the thermos into the two bowls. But even after handing Kiyoomi his share, Atsumu chooses not to speak, only smile. Even the chatterbox has his quiet moments, he guesses.

From their spot on top of the hill, Kiyoomi can see across most of the university campus. It’s six o’clock on a Sunday morning, so there’s hardly a soul awake at this hour. They’re by themselves, hanging in that perilous period of time where dreams fade and reality begins to creep in, as slow and sure as the sun beginning to peek over the horizon. The sky starts to lighten from midnight-blue to a softer turquoise, the clouds streaked with hints of orange and purple. It’s peaceful. Despite having been rudely woken up earlier, Kiyoomi can feel himself relaxing.

He doesn’t miss the little glances that Atsumu tosses his way when the athlete thinks he isn’t looking. When he turns to meet his gaze, Atsumu just turns pink and quickly looks away, taking a sip of his soup and pretending that he was watching the sunrise this whole time. The dim light falls on the tips of his hair, turning them from mustard-yellow to spun gold. Kiyoomi catches himself wondering what it would feel like if he just reached out right now and ran his fingers through it. He won’t, because hello, _germs,_ and also this is _Miya Atsumu_ he’s talking about. As in Miya “I’m the most annoying person on this planet” Atsumu, the guy who never lets up with the nicknames, the guy who won’t stop texting him the randomest things at oddest hours of the night, the guy who thinks waking him up at five in the morning is acceptable, the guy who knows umeboshi is his favorite food, the guy who treats his mysophobia as a part of him and doesn’t shy away—

Kiyoomi nearly drops his onigiri at the realization that thinking of Atsumu no longer makes him genuinely irritated, that being next to him and existing in the same space as him like this is something approaching peace and serenity and creeping towards dangerous territory that makes him want to stand up and jump off the hill.

When he finishes the onigiri and turns to look back at Atsumu again, he flinches back seeing Atsumu so close to him. The volleyball player holds his hands up and carefully shifts himself back a couple of inches, accepting Kiyoomi’s unspoken need for personal space.

The additional distances relaxes him some, but just a few scant minutes later, Kiyoomi finds himself wanting that same distance to disappear.

Half of the sun is in view now. Kiyoomi dithers for a moment, then he says, “It’s okay.”

Atsumu looks at him, confused. “What?”

“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi repeats before he can second-guess himself, “if you want to sit next to me.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen and a bright smile breaks out on his face. “Really?”

“Get over here before I change my mind, idiot.” Atsumu scrambles over like an overeager puppy, taking care not to actually touch Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi can feel the warmth radiating off of his body and it’s a nice contrast to the morning chill. They sit there side by side, shoulders almost brushing, watching the sun rise on a new day.

Kiyoomi can feel Atsumu look at him again, so he turns his head to stare back. The light plays over Atsumu’s face, casting shadows over his hair and his cheeks, taupe melting into honey in his eyes. He’s smiling softly, the tip of his nose faintly red from the cold. It’s not one of his crooked public smiles, but a smaller one with no teeth. _Beautiful,_ is the thought that crosses Kiyoomi’s mind. It would have been unwelcome a week ago, hell, even two days ago, but now, it’s not.

“Omi,” Atsumu says quietly, a plea hanging in the air between them. “I—”

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath. He knows what the other man is asking of him, even without having to put it into words. He imagines it, waiting for the clench of his gut or the anxiety of being touched by another being to tell him if this is something he’s ready for or not, and finds them strangely absent. The thought of engaging in _any_ physical activity with anyone still makes him want to hurl, but the thought of engaging in it with _Atsumu_ doesn’t bring up the same feeling of distaste. Two days ago, he would have been horrified. Now, he’s not. Why is that? Because he had seen Atsumu at some of his highest and lowest points in the same day? Because he had seen Atsumu accommodate his needs as easy as breathing? Because he had seen Atsumu fly through the air and thought him beautiful?

Or maybe, he thinks, he sees his future at Atsumu’s side, sees his future decisions written in the stars sprinkled over golden skin, sees a reflection of what can be in Atsumu’s eyes, a map of the world laid bare right in front of him, his for the taking. Then he’s certain that there’s never been anything he has wanted more.

“Atsumu,” he echoes with finality.

Neither of them are sure who leans in first.

Atsumu’s lips are slightly chapped from the cold and he tastes like miso soup and spearmint. It’s not terrible; in fact, Kiyoomi can confidently say that this is probably the best kiss he’s ever had (not that he’ll say it to Atsumu’s face, no need to inflate his already-massive ego even more).

When they separate, Atsumu is pink-cheeked, glowing, and grinning from ear to ear. “Ya never answered my question, y’know,” he says cheekily.

“And that didn’t answer it?” Kiyoomi counters, rolling his eyes.

“Doesn’t count, ya have to gimme a yes or no!” What a brat.

“If I recall, I told you to ask me again when you feel better,” he says instead.

A smirk plays on Atsumu’s lips. “Ya did, didn’tcha,” he hums, tilting forward so that his mouth is right next to Kiyoomi’s ear. “So, since we won the game, will ya go out with me, _Ki-yo-o-mi?”_ The sultry voice he uses makes the syllables of Kiyoomi’s name drip off his tongue like poisoned honey. It makes the artist’s stomach churn with something other than nausea.

“Yes,” is the only reply he can give.

He almost regrets it when Atsumu pulls back with a “wait, really?” his eyes wide and round with delight.

“Yes, really,” Kiyoomi sighs, officially resigning himself to never knowing peace and quiet again. “Did you hear me stutter?”

“Nah.” Atsumu drops his head on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, and it doesn’t make Kiyoomi want to tear all his skin off. A few strands of hair tickle his cheek, but he ignores it. “I’m glad. So—” he lifts his head, “—can I kiss ya again?”

Kiyoomi kisses him in lieu of replying.

* * *

**To: sakusa.k@msbyuni.net**

**From: sugimoto.t@msbyuni.net**

**Subject: MSBY Foster Art Grant 2021**

To Sakusa Kiyoomi,

Congratulations! You have been selected as this year’s recipient of the MSBY Foster Art Grant! A check of ¥500,000 will be written out to you as soon as possible and you will receive an additional email notification once it is available to pick up from our office. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact us at 6-6729-X393. We look forward to seeing how far you will go!

Regards,

Sugimoto Toichi

Chairman of the MSBY Student Grants Committee

Room 327, Building H

* * *

Kiyoomi closes the email app on his phone, clenches his fist, and punches up into the air with a victorious grin. He doesn’t shout, that’s not his thing (most of the time), but god, he does so wish it was sometimes. Besides, nobody will judge him for his one out-of-character moment because he’s in his own dorm room—

“Careful, Omi-kun, someone might think yer an imposter ‘cause of how much yer smilin’ right now.”

—except for a certain pest that he can never get rid of.

Kiyoomi glares at his boyfriend, who’s lounging on his bed grinning. He’s holding Kiyoomi’s portfolio tenderly, the one that contains all of the artwork he had submitted for the grant application. Without even looking, Kiyoomi can tell exactly which page he has it open on, because it’s secretly (not-so-secretly in Atsumu’s case) their mutual favorite.

A watercolor painting of the two of them holding each other, their foreheads pressed together, Kiyoomi smiling softly down at Atsumu, whose face is scrunched up mid-laugh, almond-shaped eyes half-closed with joy. There’s a lovely golden glow to his face, red amaryllis spilling out of his hair and into his burgundy MSBY hoodie. Kiyoomi’s own midnight curls have tiny pink dahlias woven between the strands, one pale hand cupping the back of Atsumu’s head and holding them close together, a MSBY Black Jackals scarf wound around his neck. In the background, a cluster of heliotrope blooms alongside honeysuckle flowers.

Kiyoomi hadn’t thought he’d had it in him to paint such a romantic piece, but Atsumu had insisted that he try. And, well, here they are.

It’s only been two months since the beginning of their relationship, so Kiyoomi can’t quite say that he loves Atsumu yet, despite the aura that the painting gives off. But he does like him, and every day his affection grows a little stronger, even if Atsumu still makes him want to smack him over the head sometimes to get him to shut up for a while (Atsumu never fails to suggest a better way to shut him up, which Kiyoomi always does so gladly).

Two months since his quiet, ~~lonely~~ isolated life turned into one filled with bickering and noise and joy and warmth and happiness. Kiyoomi hasn’t regretted it once.

“Hey, Kiyoomi?” Atsumu pipes up from the bed.

“Hm?”

Atsumu smiles, closing the portfolio with a quiet snap. “I love ya.”

Kiyoomi can’t say he loves Atsumu yet, but he has never doubted the depth of Atsumu’s feelings for him. So he answers, “I know.” And trusts that his actions will speak louder than his words.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment before you go~


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